


no man's land

by toumei



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Dialogue, Confessions, M/M, Nygmobblepot, Prediction Fic, gotham 5x11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 04:32:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18513976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toumei/pseuds/toumei
Summary: "So," Oswald says smugly, striding closer to Ed and peering up at him indignantly. "Your heart has brought you back to Gotham.""No," Ed replies, his voice coming out coarse from the sandpaper feeling in his throat. "My heart brought me back to you."





	no man's land

**Author's Note:**

> I'M POSTING THIS AN HOUR BEFORE 5x11 AIRS WHERE I LIVE, JFC
> 
> for real tho i've had this idea in my head since the first trailer for no man's land came out, but i kept putting off writing it until like three days ago in which i started rushing to finish and post it before the episode comes out lmaoo

“Oswald, think about this,” Ed calls, hurriedly making his way down the stepladder, tightly gripping the rails to keep himself from slipping. He skips the last step, a sharp jolt of pain shooting through his legs as his feet collide hard with the concrete ground of the docks, and he rushes to catch up with the other man. He briefly wonders how such a short, partially crippled person can move as quickly as Oswald can, but when Oswald slows, turning to face Ed with a glare that could cut through steel, the thought vanishes, and Ed’s mouth goes dry. He swallows before continuing, “Following your heart has _never_ worked out for you.”   
  
A knot forms in his stomach as soon the words leave his mouth, and he instantly regrets them. He’s brought up the one thing they’ve silently agreed never to speak of, the one thing they both desperately wish to erase from their memories and forget about completely. And as he watches Oswald’s lips purse, he knows that he’s thinking the same thing. _Fuck._   
  
“Following my heart has molded me into the man I am today,” Oswald says, and his voice is calmly steady, a stark opposition to the seething expression on his face and the tight, balled-up fists held stiffly at his sides. Oswald clearly doesn’t want to fight about _that,_ and Ed should grateful for it — there are much more pertinent things for them to discuss at a time like this, namely this hellscape of a city, and their near-tangible escape from it — but he feels anger and upset begin to boil in his chest at Oswald’s glossing over of the topic. There’s an implicit agreement not to broach it, and Ed knows it, he knows it like he knows the back of his own hand. But it doesn’t help the raw, visceral pain that lances through him at any near mention of those past events, the events that tore their friendship to shreds and sculpted them into enemies.   
  
“It’s almost killed you!” Ed swings the conversation back towards their actions — his actions — hoping to spark something, anything, in Oswald — a will to argue, a will to really, truly discuss their past. He knows it’s not the time for it, he knows the city is in the midst of being turned to ash, but he does it anyway, because years of bottling up his feelings and forcing them down have made them all the more volatile now that they’re truly surfacing. “Just use your damn head, for once!”   
  
Maybe he’s taking it too far; maybe he’s crossing the line between alluding to their past and just directly insulting Oswald, and so he straightens himself, pushing his glasses up and releasing a sharp breath through his nose. “Thinking logically always heeds better than letting emotions control you.”

“Oh, that’s _rich,_ Ed,” Oswald spits, venom in every word, and Ed almost flinches at just how razor sharp his tone is. “Because you’re such a striking example of where _that_ gets you.” He walks towards Ed, eyes on fire, face contorted into an expression of intense rage, and when he comes to a halt, only a few feet away from Ed, he glares up at him with such anger, such hurt, that Ed feels a sharp pang resound through his chest. “Maybe you could learn something if you listened to _this,”_ Oswald jabs a finger at Ed’s chest, right above his heart, then at his head, right between his eyes, “instead of _this!”_ Oswald keeps eye contact, his lips twitching with fury. “If you’re going to leave, take Edward with you. I’m staying. It was nice knowing you.” 

Ed has no chance to respond before Oswald turns on his heel and storms away, like a man on a mission. Which, Ed supposes, he is. A mission to save the city. A mission to risk his life. A mission to leave Ed’s side.

And, like all those years ago, Ed is frozen.

 

* * *

 

Ed can feel his heartbeat in his throat as he paces the library, uncomfortably aware of the thick, heavy pulsing under his skin and in his jugular. He breathes deeply, hoping to quell the beat, but to no avail, and so he opts for picking up the speed of his pacing in order to distract himself from the sickening, repetitive throb.   
  
He doesn’t know what to do.   
  
He spent months — _months_ — of his life singlehandedly building a submarine from scratch, drawing out complex blueprints and scrounging through filthy scrapyards in search of the necessary components and tools. He spent every waking moment planning, building, problem solving, getting ready to leave Gotham and start anew. But now, there’s a metaphorical wrench in his plans, holding him hostage while everything else moves around him, completely unaffected by his plight. It sparks a muted bitterness within him — it’s just like it’s always been. No one caring about him, no one even noticing his suffering.   
  
And now, the one person he considered a friend — even if such a friendship was tenuous and stitched together from a stronger one that used to be — is gone. He’s gone; he turned his back and walked out of Ed’s life, not for the first time, but what could very possibly be the last. The idea makes him nauseous; the thought that Oswald might die out there, fighting a losing battle against a military squadron headed by a fucking _super-soldier,_ and Ed would never know. Not unless he stayed.   
  
But he can’t stay. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to join the fallen officers and fellow criminals alike who have lost their lives because of this godforsaken city.   
  
He presses two fingers to each eye until he sees spots dance behind his eyelids, and when he opens them again, he finds himself in front of the large, ornate mirror. He stares at his reflection, at a loss for what to do.     
  
His reflection sneers back at him.   
  
_“Miss me?”_ Riddler quips, a smile like a shark’s plastered across his face, and Ed’s stomach sinks. He’s desperate for a solution, but this — this is not what he was looking for. This is not what he wanted.

“What do you want?” Ed asks. He cuts to the chase, refusing to play Riddler’s game. He has other, more important things he needs to be focusing on. He doesn’t need to be antagonized by his alter, especially not when he’s reeling from the fact that his alter still even _exists_ inside of him. He thought he was _whole._

Riddler’s grin grows impossibly wider.   
  
_“The poor have it, the rich need it, and if you eat it, you’ll die.”_ Of course it’s a riddle. He’s not surprised. And of course it’s a riddle that reminds him of _things,_ of the past which he needs no help thinking of, that he wishes he could just forget.   
  
(It’s the first riddle he’d ever told Jim; it’s the first riddle he’d gotten a serious answer to. It’s the first riddle that actually garnered a desired response, and that he can’t forget no matter how hard he tries.)   
  
“Then why are you here?” Ed seethes through gritted teeth, clenching his fists. He doesn’t need — doesn’t _want_ — to think about those things. Because now his mind is spiraling down a path of fond memories; memories of Jim, of Lee, of Oswald.   
  
_Oswald._

 _“Because I think you need a little help figuring out a few key elements,”_ Riddler says, clasping his hands behind his back, his expression obscenely, infuriatingly smug. 

“I don’t need help figuring anything out,” Ed growls, curling his fists tighter until his nails dig into his palms and his fingers begin to cramp. “What I need is to get off this island.”  
  
_“Then why haven’t you left already?”_ Riddler asks. _“You could have easily just sailed away the second Penguin turned his back.”_  
  
Ed swallows. He could have. He remained at the docks when Oswald walked away; he’s the one with the know-how to pilot the submarine. He could have just gotten in and run, leaving his past and everything behind him on this ruined, disintegrating island.   
  
_“It’s time you face the facts, Ed.”_   
  
“There aren’t any facts to face,” Ed rebuffs. He has no argument. All he can do is feebly dispute Riddler’s claims, regardless of the truth within them.   
  
_“You won’t leave without him,”_ Riddler says, snidely matter-of-fact.   
  
“I can, and I will.”  
  
_“Then I reiterate — why haven’t you?”_  
  
“Because, I...” he trails off, unable to find the words. He what? He’s not ready? He doesn’t have everything he needs? He does. There’s nothing left for him to do. What few personal belongings he has left are packed; every valuable and priceless artifact Oswald’s stolen has been loaded into the submarine, even strapped down to keep them from getting damaged during the journey. There’s no more preparation that needs to be done, and thus, there are no more excuses for Ed to tell himself.   
  
_“Because, you...”_ Riddler prompts.   
  
Ed doesn’t respond, instead swallowing thickly against a sudden lump in his throat.   
  
_“You love him,”_ Riddler supplies, and Ed’s stomach twists.    
  
“I don’t,” he counters weakly.   
  
_“Hah! I don’t even need to be a part of you to know_ ** _that’s_** _a lie.”_  
  
“It’s not a lie,” Ed says, weaker still, and Riddler’s condescending smile fades. He watches Ed with a look resembling pity, and Ed feels his throat tighten. He glances away, shifting on his feet.   
  
It’s a lie. It’s a lie, and he knows it. Riddler knows it. Hell, the world might even know it.   
  
_“You can’t live without him, you know,”_ he says, his voice oddly gentle, in a way it never has been before.   
  
Ed stays silent. Even if he wanted to speak, he doesn’t think he could get any words past the tight, thickening lump in his throat.   
  
_“You tried, and you were miserable.”_  
  
It’s true. In the weeks following his attempt on Oswald’s life, he spiraled completely out of control. He barely ate, barely slept, used drugs as a crutch to hold on to the only friend he’d ever had, the friend he had lost too soon.   
  
_“He’s the reason you are who you are.”_  
  
Ed sought Oswald out as a mentor, and got something so much better than he’d anticipated. He got a _friend,_ the first real friend he’d ever had. He’d met the only person who truly understood him, the first person to see him for who he really was, behind the mask of normality he donned every day.   
  
_“You owe it all to him.”_  
  
He does. If it weren’t for Oswald, Ed would have remained in Arkham until the bridges blew, struggling to endure the physical and psychological torture the facility deemed ‘‘therapy.’’ If it weren’t for Oswald, he may have been broken by it long ago. If it weren’t for Oswald, he never would have been able to break himself out of the hazy funk he’d fallen into during his time in the Narrows. If it weren’t for Oswald, he might very well be dead.   
  
_“I know you better than you know yourself, Ed.”_  
  
Maybe it’s true. Riddler has always been able to see straight through him, directly to the root of his thoughts and feelings _._

 _“I’m_ **_you.”_ **

He is. Ed knows he is. They share the same body, but they’re also one in the same.   
  
_“But I’m a you that doesn’t bury his feelings away.”_   
  
Ed knows; he knows that he has more baggage than he can even begin to delve into. All he’s ever done is shove his emotions to the side, pretending they didn’t exist and focusing only on the physical world. Even when he’s acted emotionally, it was _necessary._ It was _justified._ It wasn’t just because he wanted to, he _needed_ to. It was _deserved._   
  
_“I’m a you who accepts the person he is.”_   
  
It’s true. Riddler accepted that Ed was a murderer, that Ed had another, darker side to him, before Ed even knew such a side existed.     
  
_“I’m the you you want to be.”_   
  
He’s always been. He’s always been a smarter, stronger version of Ed. He’s always been someone Ed envies.   
  
_“I’m the you you_ **_can_ ** _be.”_   
  
...Is he? Ed has thought countless times that he _was_ Riddler. That they had finally combined into one, single entity. But every time, he’s been wrong.   
  
_“But you need to be honest with yourself.”_   
  
Ed thought he _was_ being honest with himself. He knows now that he wasn’t.   
  
_“We can’t be whole until you are.”_   
  
Ed stares at the floor as his alter falls silent. He knows Riddler is right. He’s always right. He was right about Kristen, he was right about Lee, and he’s right about this.   
  
“Then what should I do?” Ed asks finally, his voice small, lost.   
  
_“Go find him,”_ Riddler says, and Ed imagines that if Riddler were a physical being, he would indulge Ed in a small, reassuring touch on the shoulder.

Well, maybe not, but Ed can always pretend.

 

* * *

 

“How many do _we_ have?”   
  
Oswald’s voice is the first thing Ed hears as he climbs the stairs towards the captain’s office, and he feels his heart race at the sound of his words breaking in desperation. His grip tightens around the barrel of the gun in his hands.   
  
“Maybe thirty?” Bullock. Ed isn’t surprised he’s here; Harvey _is_ Jim’s right-hand man, after all. And, Ed supposes, he’ll have to put any chagrin he has about working with the man on the back burner, because his personal grudges and grievances matter little at a time like this.   
  
He hears Oswald scoff as he reaches the door, and the achingly familiar noise makes Ed’s heart leap and swell with endearment. He steps into the office with an air of renewed confidence.   
  
“Thirty-one,” he says, and as the three sets of eyes in the room turn towards him, he finds he really only cares about one. “I kinda like this city the way it is,” he continues, glancing first at Bullock’s dumbfounded face, then down at the assault rifle in his hands, cocking it pointedly before looking back up at the one person who really, truly matters to him. “Shall we?”   
  
Jim and Harvey exchange looks, and Jim gives a minuscule shrug before both of them make a hasty, bustling exit.   
  
Ed never takes his eyes off of Oswald.   
  
“So,” Oswald says smugly, striding closer to Ed and peering up at him indignantly. Ed knows he should be annoyed by the absurd, shit-eating expression on Oswald’s face, but all he can think about is how abstractly, exquisitely, _stunningly_ beautiful Oswald is, and any confidence he had quickly diminishes. “Your heart has brought you back to Gotham.” Ed releases a breath through his nose, swallowing against the sudden dryness of his throat.   
  
This is it. This is the climax of a relationship years in the making; a relationship formed in desperation and molded through love, hate, and betrayal. It’s all coming to a conclusion, no matter what it is — whether it ends for good or becomes something more isn’t up to him — but he’s done putting it off. Done postponing the inevitable. Done lying to himself; done shunning his feelings and burying them so deeply he can’t even find them again.   
  
Maybe this is how Oswald felt, all those years ago, trying desperately to confess to Ed the true extent of his affections, unsure of where such an admission would steer their relationship. The fear is petrifying, more so than Ed could ever have imagined. He doesn’t want to lose Oswald again. He has him, he needs him, he _loves_ him.   
  
“No,” he replies, his voice coming out coarse from the sandpaper feeling in his throat. This is it. This is really, truly it; there’s no backing out now. He steels his remaining nerves. “My heart brought me back to you.”   
  
He doesn’t hesitate — doesn’t take note of any facial cues or expression shifts, doesn’t pay any attention to the hammering of his heart or the roaring in his ears — he just acts, stooping down to capture Oswald’s lips with his own.

Oswald’s lips are warm, warmer than Ed thought they would be, and soft against his own. Ed let’s his eyes slide closed. The kiss is chaste — a bit awkward — but it feels good, it feels _right,_ it feels long, long overdue. 

When he pulls away, Oswald is peering up at him, eyes wide and cheeks red. Ed feels his own face begin to warm, and he searches Oswald’s expression for something, anything, to quell the anxiety curdling in his stomach.   
  
And then Oswald smiles, letting out something akin to a giggle, and Ed smiles back, bending to seal their lips together once again.

**Author's Note:**

> the ending is a little more rushed than the rest of it bc i procrastinated so long on getting it done
> 
> leave a comment if 5x11 is going to (or did, depending on when u read this) absolutely murder u, bc same


End file.
